Who am I, you ask? Who are any of us, you ask? Who are you to ask, I ask? That is what must be answered -- but you return, who am I to inquire? And so it continues, the dull triviality of the mundance, the uninspiring dance of science and life, but there is nothing else. That is who I am, my "friend". That is who we all are.
You look, and a disconcerted glance catches on the briefest -- but there he was, there I am, a thin man, slunk against the wall, almost as much as the shadow cast our from the dim flickering of guttered candles. And back into the ghetto that bore him, wherever it was. Not one of these tunnels, for sure; it's nearly as if he crept out of the ceiling and back into the floor, but neither admits any crevice.
Odd, this man. But what is he but what he is?